Hello friends and family,
After 12 months of service, I’d begun to feel comfortable, like nothing could surprise me anymore. And then, on Friday, I went to my clinic.
I was making my rounds through the various departments, greeting my colleagues and printing a few documents. I was outside of the maternal-health station when a clinic-volunteer called out my name and ran up to me. He was an older gentleman who I had met many times before, so naturally I smiled, held out my hand, and tried desperately to remember his name. He returned my smile and asked where I’d been all this time. Then his smile fell and he started to fidget. After a pause he started rambling about, of all things, African cleaning customs.
“Ah, ba Colton, you see… we Africans, we have many cleaning rituals. You know, yes?” He asked.
“Yeah, of course…” I replied.
“Yes yes,” he said, “it is very important to us.” Then he pointed away, towards some houses. “Today, we will go that side, and we can clean together.”
I’ve had my fair share of odd conversations, but I’ve never been pitched house-work as a mode of cultural exchange before. Was it rude to say no? And why was he acting so odd? Before I could respond, he called out to a man behind me: “Jacob! Ah yes. Come here, come here.”
Jacob, a farmer in his forties, walked over and shook my hand. “Ba Colton,” the older man said, “this is my son-in-law, Jacob.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” I said. Jacob mumbled agreement. The older man continued: “You see, this is the man whose house we will clean.”
“Okay.” I said. I was still confused but I’d learned to roll with the punches by then.
“You see, last week, his son died.” He said.
“Oh my God,” I said, putting a hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “I am very sorry for your loss ba Jacob.”
Jacob didn’t meet my eyes. He looked down at the ground, then mumbled something in Bemba and left our little huddle. He seemed to be deeply ashamed. Once Jacob left ear-shot, the older man whispered: “You see, his son…” Then he tilted his head up and lifted his fist above his head. I tilted my head in confusion, so he said, “He hanged himself. He hanged himself in my son-in-law’s house.”
I was so taken aback that I didn’t know how to respond. The best I could manage was, “Oh wow. That’s so terrible.”
“Yes yes,” he said, “it is very bad. That is why we must clean the house. Get rid of the demons and the negative energy. Any witchcraft there too. It must go.”
Ah ha, I thought, that explained why he was talking about being African and cleaning. Still, I was a bit surprised by the mention of spirits and witchcraft in a serious conversation. After all, this man was an educated clinic-volunteer and a Christian to-boot. I understand his desire to clean and “purify” his home, but was he serious about exercising evil spirits?
Regardless, I still didn’t know why he wanted me, an outsider, to get involved in such a private community matter. When I asked him, he said: “Well ba Colton, I know you help the community, and all we need is just a little help. That is all. Just 150 kwacha ($8) to buy the soap and bleach. That is all, that is all.”
Yep, it’s money. I thought. It’s always money. I get pleas for money whenever I buy groceries, but they’re almost always from strangers who are either hungry or drunk. It’s rarer, and far more uncomfortable, when someone I know asks for money, and actually needs it. I tried to let him down gently: “Listen boss, people ask me for money everyday. If I said ‘yes’ to all of them, I would be broke, so instead I have to say ‘no’ to all of them. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you with this.”
I always tense up after these exchanges. I worry that that someone will lose their temper and shout something like: “Fuck you, you greedy, privileged fuck!” But that never happens. All he did was nod, and looked at the ground. I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed, angry, or just crestfallen. After a moment, he perked up and said, “let me introduce you to women at the clinic today.” Behind him, there were about three dozen mothers with the children, waiting in line for vaccinations and vitamins.
“Oh that’s really not-”
He turned around and shouted, “Everyone! This is Colton! He is from America, and he is here to help you with anything you need, anything at all. If you need something, come to him!”
Despite the circumstances, he wasn’t sarcastic. He was totally sincere about me helping out everyone, even though I had just refused his request. I think it was his way of apologizing for putting me on the spot. That said, it was horrifically embarrassing to have an older man rambling on about how you’re basically a white savior in front of 40 moms waiting in line. Most of them didn’t even turn to look; clearly, they were used to his sermons. Still, after three straight minutes of this, I had had enough. I put my hand on his shoulder, told him thank you, but I really had to go somewhere, and I walked off at a speed that was not quite running. I’m 12 months in, I’ve got 12 to go, but I think Zambia’s got a few more surprises up her sleeve.
I made this meal at the prov house this week. Chicken breast with potatoes, charred zucchini, and home-made tzatziki. I consider stoves and refrigerators to be miracles, plain and simple.
Very cool Colton, I always enjoy reading your stuff. Sending good vibes from PC Ecuador 😀